


The Adventure of the Public School

by witteefool



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Work In Progress, canon based, school fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witteefool/pseuds/witteefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let me get this straight, Sherlock. You've been moping around the flat for 24 hours because some old classmate has a case for you? Why..." </p><p>It dawned on me suddenly. I took my tea and sat back down in my usual chair, trying to hide a grin but failing.</p><p>"You don't want to go back to your old school, do you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game is On

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for posting a WIP. I can't promise a quick resolution, but I hope you enjoy this a bit.
> 
> This was an attempt to marry the style of the canon stories, told from Watson's perspective, with the characters and levity of the TV series. So. There's that.

Sherlock was particularly overstimulated on that rainy June day. He fiddled with the bow of his violin, then actually fiddled a few notes, huffing his breath out anxiously with more than a hint of frustration.

"What on Earth is going on, Sherlock?" I snapped at him, lowering the newspaper I was reading.

I had, by then, grown use to the Sherlockian symptoms of boredom, but they were not in evidence. This was something different.

"Go back to your reading, John." He replied, drawling over the adverb to emphasize his low opinion of my reading material. He then returned his bow to the strings of his violin and creates in six notes a violent cacophony that would have put cats in heat to shame.

"I swear to god Sherlock, if you do that one more time I will break the violin over your bloody head."

As unwilling as I was to be dictated to by my tremendously frustrating flatmate I also knew better than to try to wait this mood out. After three days of pacing about and angrily scratching tunes (if they could even be called that) from his violin, my threat was not outside the realm of possibility.

I folded the paper up and moved towards the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea.

"If this is about the lack of cases..." I muttered over my shoulder (I knew it wasn't, but sometimes Sherlock would spill the beans just to correct me.)

Sherlock took to motion and removed himself from the couch, scratching at his head with the wooden section of his bow. I was reminded of his lack of gun discipline at the pool, suddenly, and suppressed a shutter. I could do without that kind of excitement in my life, no matter how intolerable a bored Sherlock proved. 

"No John, it is not about the lack of cases. Although now that you mention it that is _extremely_ frustrating. I can only hope the criminal element has taken a holiday or the Yard discovered a miracle vitamin to induce supreme intelligence. Surely Lestrade would have something by now," he ranted in his breathless manner.

This was an improvement. Monologues and pacing meant that Sherlock wasn't simply falling into depression, which normally meant watching over him all night to ensure he didn't fall into his former habits.

Resigned, I turned away from the kettle and faced him,

"What is it, then?"

Direct questions were almost guaranteed to be greeted with obfuscation from the consulting detective, but at least I could calm my conscience by making the attempt.

To my enormous surprise Sherlock strode to the table by the window and removed a paper with the tips of his fingers, as though it might explode on impact. (Letters addressed to Sherlock had been known to do that on occasion, but he rarely brought them into 221B. So I assumed it was safe enough.) He thrust it into my hands and I read,

_ Sherlock, _

_ This is Abe Slaney. Don't know if you remember me but we were classmates at Thorton House. I'm a teacher here now (English) and there's been an incident. Can't say much but I know from that blog (which is brilliant, btw, tell Dr. Watson) your in the mystery biz and we could use some help. Give me a ring (020) 7394 1282 _

_ \- Abe  _

I placed the printed e-mail on the kitchen counter and poured the boiling water into my mug. 

"So, are you going to help? He seems a nice bloke."

Sherlock gave me a look of deep disdain,

"You're just saying that because he complimented your amazingly misleading blog. Look at the man-- a teacher of English at a leading preparatory school and he can't even manage basic grammar."

I picked up the e-mail again while Sherlock flung himself onto the couch as if he were some Victorian heroine. He was correct that the man's grammar left something to be desired-- he'd written "your" for "you're." But (except for Sherlock, of course) we all make mistakes. Especially when under stress.

I realize, writing this now, that Sherlock's barb about my blog rankled. If I'd recognized it at the time I might have been less snappish. 

"Let me get this straight, Sherlock. You've been moping around the flat for 24 hours because some old classmate has a case for you? Why..." 

It dawned on me suddenly. I took my tea and sat back down in my usual chair, trying to hide a grin but failing.

"You don't want to go back to your old school, do you?"

By this point Sherlock had folded his arms and legs in like a cat and turned his body into the couch back. His reply was a bit muffled,

"Brilliant deduction as always, John."

I'm a patient man, especially when it comes to my infuriating flatmate, but even I have my limits and it was quickly approaching. Knowing my cup of tea would go undrunk, I placed it on the table and uncovered Sherlock's laptop from beneath a variety of papers and news clippings.

"What's your password, Sherlock?"

There was a petulant grunt from the direction of the couch but otherwise no response. I opened Sherlock's laptop anyway and sat down. To my great surprise the screen was open to the very e-mail in question and there was no password prompt at all.

It had become obvious that Sherlock meant for me to do this, likely because his own ego refused to deflate any.

Either he was truly desperate for a case (entirely possible, The Adventure of the Computer Programmer's Thumb had been weeks ago) or he had some genuine curiosity about this mysterious "incident."

I clicked the reply button and typed out the following,

_  
Mr. Slanely, _

_ Thank you for your kind words about my blog. Sherlock and I would be happy to help, we can be in on the next train. Let me know when is most convenient. _

_ Hope to meet you in person soon, _

_ Dr. John Watson _


	2. Back to School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get to Thorton Hall and meet Abe Slanely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not brit-picked or beta'd. Feel free to comment on errors!

True to my e-mail, we embarked on the first available train and arrived in the picturesque but largely uninhabited Thortonville train station that afternoon. Sherlock had been restless the entire ride but I found the train's rhythmic movements calming and napped for the duration of the trip. (Much to my friend's displeasure, I'm sure. He always enjoys attention when he's in a stroppy mood.)

In fact, Sherlock seemed more childish than usual as we waited for our pick up. As would be proven later, the trip to his old school grounds served to regress him a bit. For a man who generally displays the emotional disposition of a five-year-old, this is no easy feat.

We reached Thorton Hall. Although I was prepared for some grandiose monstrosity I still found myself slack jawed as we approached the double-doored entrance. Generally this would prompt Sherlock to roll his eyes and say something insulting, but as I mentioned his behavior was a bit different than usual. 

A grand brick hall (if there ever was a building that deserved the title of "Hall," this was it) sat perched on a small hill surrounded by oaks and pine trees. Ivy snaked through cast iron window bars, the glass slightly warped with age.

We were admitted through the great oaken doors of the main entrance and walked past a sitting room that might have been stolen from an Austen novel. Our driver, who I had originally assumed to be Abe Slanely, seemed to be a member of staff. My own parochial school only had teachers, lunch ladies, and a gym instructor, so I felt a bit out of my element. The driver lead us to the back of the first floor where a small office with modern furnishings housed our client.

I entered the office with Sherlock and turned to thank our driver and ask his name, only to find he had disappeared.

Abe was a mousy man in a creased button-down blue shirt and grey slacks. His slightly balding head contained smatterings of thin brown locks, but his face was surprisingly unwrinkled. Overall he gave off a rather youthful look. As he stood to greet us I noticed he wore scuffed white trainers, despite his more formal clothes.

He smiled widely and shook Sherlock's hand with fervor,

"Sherlock! It's so great to see you again!"

To my astonishment Sherlock attempted a flicker of a smile before removing himself from Abe's grip and collapsing into the one chair in front of Abe's neatly ordered desk. Abe turned to me with the same eager smile, shaking my hand with such passion I felt it ache slightly afterwards.

"So happy to meet you in person, Dr. Watson, truly."

I smiled back and looked for a chair for myself to no avail. Abe noticed my glances,

"Oh, a chair. Won't be a moment."

He was already one step out the door when Sherlock's patience for social niceties came to an abrupt end.

"How many children are missing?"

Abe froze to the spot.

"Don't be so shocked. We passed the Head Master's office on our delightful little tour and there were at least three sets of parents in various stages of duress. I'm supposing that means three missing children but there could always be siblings."

Abe half choked out, "Three."

"Ah, so I was correct," Sherlock continued smugly as Abe returned to behind his desk, "Considering you e-mailed yesterday morning the children have been go for over 24 hours. Thorton is, of course, overly protective of its students but since this is Tuesday it's more likely the children vanished over the weekend. I can only deduce that the children went unnoticed for the entirety of Sunday. So, just over 48 hours. Surely by this point you've called the police, regardless of press and what not. But since the parents are just now being informed..."

Sherlock stood abruptly and leaned menacingly over the desk towards Abe.

"No. I won't be your replacement for the police. Tell the authorities, find the children, return them to their darling parents, and leave me out of this fracas."

He began to turn his jacket collar up (we've spoken about this habit, he still refuses to acknowledge it) when Abe came scurrying back towards his desk.

"There was a note," Abe squeaked, seeming more like a mouse than ever. He grabbed a key from his desk and unlocked one of its drawers. A crisp handwritten note was passed to Sherlock, who handed it to me before slumping back into the spindly wooden chair. Honestly, it's as if the man can do nothing for himself. 

"The children are safe but won't be for long/ Consider your options before they are gone/ Avoid the police or there will be peril/ Find Sherlock Holmes and evade further terror," I read.

It seemed a chilling note to me but Sherlock scoffed,

"Terrible poet. A former student of yours, Abe? You should consider teaching iambic pentameter, it would lead to a more consistent rhythm. I suppose it's unsigned, John?"

I nodded and handed the note back to Sherlock, who removes his pocket magnifier to inspect the paper itself. 

Amidst our interview with Abe the parent conference must have broken up. A thump of heavy steps sounded in the hall before a large, well-built man stood at the doorway of Abe's office. His face was fairly purple with anger. The Doctor in me immediately wondered about his blood pressure.

Abe looked up in shock and smiled apologetically (to the man, not to us, clearly he was afraid.)

"Ah, Sherlock, this is Mr. Beachley. He's the Head Master."

The man did not look happy to see us, that much was clear. I was beginning to rethink whether I wouldn't prefer to put up with a deafening violin rather than be at this ridiculously posh school.


	3. The Plot Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces Headmaster Beachley and searches for clues. (None of these clues consist of jam.)

“Who is this?” Beachley demanded, practically shaking with suppressed anger.

I have always known Sherlock to be a consummate actor with chameleon-esque abilities, but it never ceases to be a startling sight when Sherlock slips into a “disguise.” His acting is extremely effective in opening-up witnesses but his everyman personas also seemed to be the antithesis of the thoroughly-singular consulting detective.

I attempted to cover a shiver as Sherlock strode jauntily to the Headmaster, hand outstretched and face plastered with a smile.

“How nice to meet you, Mr. Beachley, sir! Abe is always telling me what a change you’ve brought on the school. How thrilling to finally meet you in person.” Sherlock grasped the other man’s hand and shook it in a quick up-and-down motion.

Abe looked at the proceedings blankly until Beachley turned his attentions to the teacher. The confused expression attempted to reassure the stolid man with a quick smile and once again I was reminded of a cornered mouse. Sherlock grabbed at Beachley’s shoulder before Abe could give the game away.

“How long have you been here now, Mr. Beachley? Two months? Or was it three?”

Judging from Abe’s increasingly petrified look, Slanley had never told Sherlock anything about Beachley’s tenure. Had he researched the man on the train? More likely Sherlock had performed another baffling deduction.

“Two and a half.” Replied Beachley gruffly.

“Fantastic!” Continued Sherlock with false joviality, “And when is the board confirming your permanent headship?”

Beachley was close to reverting to his formerly frightening state but a blinding smile from Sherlock surprised him enough that he spoke,

“The deal was after three months.”

My flatmate may consider me no better than a “conductor of light” but even I could put two and two together. Was the kidnapping a set up? Seemed a bit far to go just to make sure a man didn’t land a job.

As abruptly as it had appeared, Sherlock’s façade fell away. He strode past Beachley with his normal cat-like steps, heading up the hallway before I could make my way past the intimidating figure of the Headmaster.

“Come on, John!” He yelled.

I scowled and dipped my head briefly to the two other men before following Sherlock out. They both looked a bit shell-shocked, but that was the general response to the consulting detective in full-interrogation mode.

After a bit of a jog (damn Sherlock and his ludicrously long legs) I managed to keep pace with the other man.

“So?” I asked.

Sherlock pushed his hands into his deep jacket pockets. His mental map of his former school seemed as accurate as his map of London, or at least I had to trust he was leading us to some specific destination.

“Wrong.” He said shortly with more than a hint of disdain.

“What?”

“Do try to keep up John,” Sherlock responded, “No, this isn’t about the Headmaster. Well, it could be, but not in the way you think. Slanely, on the other hand…”

He slipped into thought as we took the stairs we had passed by on our initial entrance. As we reached the top it was clear we had found the residence area. It must be a very small student population, if the one (admittedly gargantuan) building held both students and classrooms. I found myself wondering exactly how Sherlock had gotten on here.

With unerring accuracy Sherlock pushed open one of the identical-seeming doors. I followed him inside with a quick look backwards, then shut the door quietly.

“This one of the missing children’s room?”

“Two, actually,” replied Sherlock.

The two beds in the room were precisely made. Both had trunks at the end and a scattering of clothing and sporting equipment on the floor. It looked more like a very orderly college dormitory than a kid’s bedroom.

“Are they always so neat?”

Sherlock gave a snort and crouched to look beneath the beds. He then took out his magnifying glass and examined the floor beneath him.

“Shoes missing, no signs of scuffmarks beyond normal wear. They didn’t leave unwillingly, then.”

As much as I enjoy watching the process of Sherlock’s deductions it is at times like these that I wonder if I could replace myself with the skull without him noticing. Probably.

Sherlock rose to his feet again and I saw that his normally keen look had been displaced by a scowl of frustration.

“There’s something I’m not being told.”

He tossed the door open and made a beeline back down the hall.

“Come, John!” He said over his shoulder as I struggled to keep up. I was feeling more and more like a stray puppy by the moment.


End file.
